walking into the fog...

I've heard stories about the moors all my life,
Bronte Sisters, Scotland, Sherlock Holmes, and I wish I could be there, to
breathe in the smell of the peat, the moisture of the fog in the air, walking
between the split wood fence, the gate open, the path, clear but the brambles,
the thickets, lavender in the fields, an old stone wall, low, crumbling, was
that there when the William the Conqueror showed up, oh I take that out of the
law, roam proud and free, Scots of the Highlands, wild women of the moors, going
into the cottage sitting at the thick oak table cutting the loaf of bread, good
homemade bread you can tell a cunning loaf by the texture of the slice, it's
like nature's knitting a well made piece of bread, the slice is cut, do you
want marmalade with your toast, pet, she pushes the jars towards him, marmalade,
or honey, or a cut of yellow butter, almost white this spread, I hear the horse
outside, can see him tossing his head up and down or is that the donkey nodding
in agreement, he wants a little breckie as well, go out and give him some bread
as well, he likes the honey, himself, ohh mister are we putting on airs, he
tips his bowler on the back of his head, and runs his thumbs underneath his
black suspenders and he smiles, his eyes as dark as the night sky, with a bit
of star sparkle in them, white though, this bloke needs more time out in the
open, maybe he'll be giving the job of winnowing the crop make sure the scythe
is well sharpen...